Chapter 6
Theo
“Earth to Theo!” My attention snaps up from my phone to find Jesse’s light brown eyes fixed on me. He’s smiling patiently, but I can sense the irritation creeping in.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing my tone to be cheerful as I grab my drink and take a quick sip to buy a second. “Band stuff.”
Annoyance lingers behind his calm smile.
We exchanged numbers after my birthday, and he’s never been shy about his interest. Since then, he has flooded my phone with texts, memes, and casual invites.
I agreed to meet him for coffee, but now that I’m here, I can’t pull my focus away from Dante’s messages.
Or rather, the conspicuous lack of them.
He usually texts me throughout the day, even when there’s nothing important to say.
He’ll share a song he heard on the radio that he knows I love, or a quick photo of the latest miniature he finished painting.
For years he kept that collection hidden from me, but when I spotted the shelves in the background of another photo and asked to see more, it became our thing.
Quiet shares, no pressure, just him letting me in on a small piece of himself.
Those texts are missing right now. He’s limited himself to a quick confirmation that I made it home safely after the club and a few band-related items—logistics, schedules. Nothing personal. No casual chatter or playful banter. Even my most recent text didn’t get him to bite.
What do femboys drink with dinner?
Gender fluid!
He responded with a single thumbs-up emoji. A thumbs-up. I get that he’s older than me and might not be up to speed on every corner of internet etiquette, but everyone knows that’s a slight. It stings more than it should.
“That band takes up all of your time,” Jesse says, redirecting my focus to him once more.
The irritation bleeds from his tone again, and he pulls his lips into a hard line.
“It’s been four days since I asked you out, and now that you’re actually available, you aren’t even paying attention to me.
” He sticks his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout that’s half-joking, half-serious.
A pang of guilt makes me cave instantly.
“You’re right. I’m being rude and I apologize.
” I set my phone face-down on the table and meet his eyes fully.
“The band does take a huge chunk of my time, but you have to understand it’s my job.
You wouldn’t appreciate me getting irritated with you for being too busy to talk while you’re at work, would you? ”
Jesse is in law school on top of his part-time gig at Prism, and our schedules have clashed until this point… along with a modest dose of hesitation on my end that I’m not ready to admit out loud.
He gives in, face softening as an apologetic smile slips across his mouth. “No, I suppose not. I’m being a brat and hadn’t thought of it that way. It just felt like you didn’t want to see me.”
I’m too nice, and too much of a pushover, to voice the real hesitation behind this date.
In the beginning, flirting with Jesse was a petty, desperate way to make Dante jealous.
It was an admittedly terrible idea that seemed brilliant in my intoxicated haze.
But after a few dances at the club, he made a bold push to explore where this could lead, and I didn’t have the heart—or the spine—to shut it down outright.
Right now, I just want to go home, and that makes me an even bigger jerk.
“It’s not that,” I assure him with a smile that attempts confidence but probably lands somewhere closer to strained. “My life is more chaotic than it’s ever been, and I’m not sure a relationship is in the cards. I would hate to lead you on if we’re on completely different wavelengths.”
“Hey,” he says with a syrupy-sweet smile, reaching across the table to grip my hand. “Wherever you are in your life, whatever you’re looking for… I can be patient. I’m fine with taking things slow.”
I pull my hand away, using my coffee as an excuse to escape his grip. “Okay, but why me?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you serious right now, Theo? You show up in that sexy outfit, flash me that gorgeous smile, and you expect me to not be smitten? Give yourself some credit, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, that outfit was pretty smokin’, wasn’t it?” I manage, forcing a lighter laugh.
“The smokin’-est,” he agrees. He leans back, clearly pleased to have steered us back to safer, flirtier ground.
As I contemplate my next question, I take a slow sip of coffee and decide straightforward is the only way forward. “This is going to sound awful, so I’ll go ahead and apologize in advance…”
“Yippee!” he whisper-yells.
“Your interest in me… it isn’t because of the band, is it?
” The words come out softer than I intend, but I push on.
“I have an entire inbox full of emails from guys insisting they’re my soulmate based strictly on watching me play guitar on stage.
People I’ve never even spoken to that are looking for their chance in the spotlight. ”
Jesse cocks a brow, race unreadable.
“I’m fully aware of how arrogant that sounds,” I hurry to explain. “We aren’t famous enough for me to have such an inflated ego, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be bigger someday. I will not allow myself to be used.” The conviction in my last statement surprises even me and hangs sharp between us.
He nods slowly. “Okay, that’s fair. But when you pulled in, I had no way of knowing you weren’t just another cute guy celebrating his birthday. It’s not like you were driving a fancy, flashy car or running around yelling that you’re in a successful rock band.”
“Did you recognize us?”
“When I saw the five of you in that booth, it clicked and I realized who you were. On your own, I don’t think I would’ve recognized any of you, but you have to admit you make a unique group when you’re together.”
“Did that influence your decision to ask me out?”
He sighs, reaching out and tentatively taking my hand across the table. “I understand your need for caution, but can you please believe for a moment that I like you for you, not for what you bring to the table?”
“You don’t know me,” I point out as I slip my fingers free and reach for my coffee again.
“Not yet,” he agrees, leaning back in his chair. “Isn’t that why we’re here? To get to know each other?”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a small, insistent buzz that takes every ounce of self-control not to fish it out and check if it’s Dante. I swallow hard, the ache in my chest tightening for a second before I force a long, loud sigh.
“Alright,” I say. “I am pretty amazing, after all. What do you want to talk about?”
“Sorry I’m late, guys!” I shout, sprinting down the hallway at the studio, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. “I’ve been around Eric too much and I forgot how to tell time!”
“Fuck you, Theo!” Eric’s voice booms back at me.
I skid around the corner, troublemaker grin already splitting my face when I notice an unexpected person in the room. “Monica! I didn’t know you’d be here today.”
“Would it have made you on time?” she teases, crossing the space to pull me into a quick hug that smells faintly of her signature vanilla perfume.
“Probably not.”
“Hot date?” she asks, one brow arched as she steps back.
I laugh and give her a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Something like that.”
Dante tenses just beyond her for half a second before he smooths it over. “Okay, now that everyone’s here, let’s begin,” he says, perfectly professional as he avoids my eyes entirely. He dives straight into his speech about the release in two weeks.
Our biggest show yet will take place in Charlotte, and as soon as the opening song starts, the album will drop for purchase everywhere.
The afterparty is, of course, my primary concern, but I sit quiet like a good boy until Monica and Dante reach that part of the discussion.
They run through the growing list of VIPs planning to attend—several local bands with similar popularity to ours, a respectable number of B-list celebrities, and a few prominent singers and actors Monica has represented in the past.
“It’s nice when the rich and famous owe you favors,” she says with a wink.
The group is crackling with excitement, but an undercurrent of nervous energy buzzes beneath it all. Until now we were independent, and any failures or mishaps could be chalked up to collective inexperience. They could be excused as growing pains we could shrug off.
But this? A professionally backed album with this level of support behind it?
Failure would be a red flag for our future, a misstep that could halt four and a half years of progress in its tracks. And fuck if that isn’t a scary thought.
Monica attends to the final details on her checklist then leaves us to rehearse. After finalizing the set list for Charlotte, we dive into a couple hours of intense practice. By the end, my fingers throb from the strings and Eric’s voice is giving out.
I yell over as I’m packing my bass into its case. “Hey Eric!”
“What’s up?” His response comes out hoarse and croaky, almost like a bullfrog with a bad cold.
“You know the best home remedy for a sore throat, don’t you?”
Amusement lines his face as he grins back at me. “I’m not sure I do, Theo. Please, by all means, enlighten me.”
“A good old-fashioned salt rinse. Get a big, warm mouthful of salty water, and gargle deep into your throat. I mean, deep down in there. Slosh it around to guarantee it hits everything just right.”
Dmitri’s head whips in our direction, cheeks flushing adorably pink. “He’s on to something there,” he yells over.
Eric bursts out laughing. “Now, that leaves one unanswered question about this home remedy.”
“And what might that be?”
He shrugs as Dmitri walks over and slides an arm around his back, pulling him close. “After I gargle, do I spit or swallow?”
“Fuck,” Dmitri grunts, gripping the back of Eric’s neck and dragging him into a blistering kiss.